I have been thinking lately about a color blind synesthete, about how his brain would be able to see colors but his eyes couldn't, and so whenever he would look at certain numbers it would be his brain that showed him colors that simply didn't exist anywhere else for him. Leaves wouldn't be green, but perhaps fours would. I think that those secret colors would be addictive, that he would slowly become more and more obsessed with seeking out those numbers, hungry for the possibility of brilliance living only inside his mind, of sudden vivid shapes bursting out from somewhere behind his eyes.
Until one day those numbers would be his whole world, roaming the planet hungry for the blues and greens and yellows and reds that his eyes just couldn't give, unshaven and eyes sore and hands trembling in exhaustion and ecstasy. Speaking only to people whose phone numbers were made out of the numbers that gave him his colors, living only in towns with zip codes made out of the right combinations.
And eventually, perhaps, more enchanted with the brilliant shades handed out by his neurons, putting out his own eyes in order to remove other distractions. Sure that the memories of his secret colors would be more fulfilling than all the dull new things he could ever see.
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